The Weeknd, Beauty Behind the Madness, review: 'dated'

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Just in case you’ve lost track of who’s who in the new wave of RnB, 25-year-old Abel Tesfaye helpfully identifies himself on his second studio album as the one with “the hair, singing ’bout popping pills”.

To be fair, we don’t know much else about the enigmatic singer who filled London’s O2 arena two years ago.Rising quickly to fame on the back of the deftly disturbing mixtapes he began releasing in 2011, the Canadian son of Ethiopian immigrants has given only a handful of interviews. Last month he broke cover to defend the misogyny in his lyrics: “I love villains – they’re the best characters in movies, right?”

Collaborating with Swedish producer Max Martin continues Tesfaye’s mainstream offensive that began with the Ariana Grande duet Love Me Harder and a tense, string-soaked contribution to the 50 Shades soundtrack. But he rejected all the flat-packed material Martin brought to the table, building new songs from scratch.

The combination of Tesfaye’s dark detachment and Martin’s propulsive polish works to its most thrilling effect on the single I Can’t Feel My Face. The ode to cocaine is driven by an addictively deep, danceable funk bass, topped by a silvery synth chill. Working directly from the Michael Jackson playbook, he sounds like an angel resigned to falling.

Abel Tesfaye, otherwise known as The Weeknd Credit:
FREDERIC J. BROWN

“Tell ’em this boy ain’t made for lovin’” are the opening words on an album on which he is repeatedly kicked in the “emoshins”. Real Life builds up to a pitch of doomed drama from a corrosive slash of guitar as Tesfaye confides that even his “Mama called me destructive”.

But Ed Sheeran fails to rescue him on the tedious Dark Times and Lana Del Rey – who ought to be his perfect partner in pop-noir – adds nothing but a bored spritz of vocal perfume to the lethargic Prisoner. There is a fresh, jazzy beat of piano and handclaps to Losers (courtesy of the east London singer-songwriter Labrinth) and a chilling menace and detached beauty to The Hills on which he charmingly tells his lover that he has already had sex with two other women that evening.

I get that the creepy and controlling way in which Tesfaye continues to sing about women is part of his “villain” persona. He infuses it all with a unique spectral thrill. But hasn’t rap and RnB played that loophole to death by now?

With more sexually ambiguous performers such as Frank Orange pushing back boundaries, it’s depressing to see Tesfaye falling into such a stale role, even if he acknowledges the inevitability of that character.

Maybe the reason The Weeknd can’t feel his face isn’t the coke. Maybe it’s the dated, macho mask. He should grow the balls to drop it.